Hypothermia
by ThePsychoVamp
Summary: "There you lay, there you cried and there you passed away." small one-shot. slash.


It's four o'clock in the morning. Your cold hard body extends itself across the seats of your Volvo. Your skull is leaning against the cushioned driver's seat. You don't move. You don't breathe. You don't think. The rain attacks the windows of your car with excessive violence and you gaze at such a phenomenon with dead black eyes.

Deep inside – _very deep inside – _you wish to feel cold. You want your hair to rise because of the cold. Reflecting well, you start questioning yourself. In the middle of this 'epiphany', you ask yourself a pertinent question:

When was the last time you felt your spine congealing and your eyes burning because of the frigid air that surrounded you?

You know the answer. It's quite simple. You remember (very vaguely) the last moments of your life. You were so frightened. You shook and you moaned, because you were _so, so_ cold, when, in reality, you were _so, so_ hot.

Looking back at the past, you sigh once again.

Now, you ask yourself:

How many times have you sighed?

You consider calculating the average, but you don't have values that allow you to do that. You think, for a miserly second, that it is a good idea to finger count, but your mind follows another direction, then. You imagine a straight line divided into two parts. The point of division is 'the zero'. You start there. You trace another straight line above the one that already exists, defining the zero as the starting point again. When the line ends, you draw an arrow, because at the end of the bottom line, you find a 'lying eight'.

You recognize it. It's the infinity symbol.

You go back to 'point zero'. You trace a miniscule circumference – not a circle, but a circumference – above that point. Someone must have told you that's how you know if your unknown's value can be the point that you marked or not.

It is not. In all your life (existence), you've sighed _more _than zero times, but your unknown is _still unknown._

Only you know its name. It's not 'X', but 'J'.

You (only you) know why.

XYXY

You wait for him to fall asleep.

You always do this. Normally, you stare at him while he sleeps, but today you cannot do it.

Today he won't sleep in your arms, because although the cold you transmit doesn't bother him much, his heat is like an infernal combustion. Every time you touch him, you feel the fire spreading throughout your body, burning you in the process.

It's not pleasant at all. Inside, you scream and cry, agonized. Outside, you smile and offer him solace.

You pretend a lot.

You know that, don't you? You know you're lost, don't you? Your lies have grown and grown and suddenly, they stopped being a meadow to become a thicket. Your performances turned out to be brambles, thorns and nettles. If your heart beat, you would have bled to death from being so pricked.

You laugh lowly, even though the situation is not amusing at all.

The word 'habit' is very interesting. You also titter when he insults you, when he rejects you, when he turns his back on you. But you do not find it humorous.

Why? Why do you laugh? Why do you pretend?

"Oh," you sigh _yet again. _"I don't know."

But you know. The answers are at the tip of your tongue. You pretend you are fine, because you're scared of losing control. You're scared that your beloved will find out about your weaknesses.

You're scared of losing him. That's what would happen if you let the mask fall.

You would lose him, because once you were naked, you would never wear the armor again.

And you know very well that he's happy when you're happy, but he would rather die as a victim than move a single finger to aid you.

You shrink.

He's very close and you are being burnt again.

You feel _so, so _hot, but in reality, you're _so, so _cold.

You curse the fucking irony and smile _ironically._

XYXY

"Oh, come on, Jake. I was just joking," you say, trying not to show your frustration.

By accident, you told him you wished you had never met him.

The truth hurts. You're a witness.

His arms are crossed and you can only see his back. You bet his pouting, too.

Hesitantly, you walk in his direction, but you stop abruptly before you try to raise your hand to console him.

You can't.

You can't move your fingers. You can't move your legs.

You can't talk. You want to try. You want to say something to make him feel better, but the words which have installed themselves in your gullet are tangled.

You can't say anything. You are certain that from your mouth will not come the words that he wishes to hear.

It will come what you _want _to say. The words that have been wedged in your throat will come.

You're quiet.

You don't want to hurt him.

You just died inside and he didn't even notice. _Still,_ you don't want to hurt him.

XYXY

Four o'clock in the morning.

Your Volvo.

Meditation hour.

"No." You shake your head. "No."

Without uttering one more word, you abandon your car.

You perforate the forest, panicky.

You don't run, but your chest trembles. The rain wets you from head to toe, but it does not wash you.

"Scoundrel!" you scream. "I hate you. I hate you so much!"

You stumble and fall.

You don't stand up.

You don't know how you got here. You have no idea what happened. You were immortal and suddenly, you just weren't. It was like a lightening.

Oh, but you know…

It was the imprint that made you change. You lost all control, because when it becomes too much (when all the hurt becomes too overwhelming), the entire planet and the head of the closest luminary will see that you are suffering. You can't control the tears that stream down your face. You can't control your sobs anymore.

You want to feel happy, because after all, you would have given your soul to the Devil to be human again.

You always thought like that. What changed?

Now that you are mortal, what changed?

You feel cold. You feel the roughness of the ground where you lie on. You feel something, for the sake of variety.

Your teeth chatter, like they're about to fall. You shrink like a feline and there you lie, waiting.

What are you waiting for, naïve child? Are you waiting for _him _to come and save you?

For that, he needs to care _enough._

You know he cares. You read it in his mind. However, you recognize that he does not worry enough about you to make you feel good.

Thoughts have always been more insignificant than words and words have always been more insignificant than actions.

You know this, Edward. Then why do you keep torturing yourself?

"Oh," you whimper. "Sorry. Sorry, Jacob. Sorry."

XYXY

In the end, nothing was done.

There you lay, there you cried and there you passed away.

The cold took hold of your being and your organs began to fail.

You may have heard _his _voice before you died, but you're not sure.

You're not sure about anything, because you're already dead.

They arrived too late.

_He _arrived too late.

And now, Edward? Do you still think it's your fault?

I beg your pardon. You don't think anything, do you? You're dead. Completely dead. All that remained of you was the young soul of Edward Masen, the boy who wanted to die in the war and should have died in the epidemic.

This was your end on Earth, child. Now go. You're free.

Go see your Mother.

XYXY

_This is just a translation (the English version of 'Hipotermia'). Thanks for reading._


End file.
